However Many More

by Bo Thunboe

  “Hold on, now.” Trane stopped the door with a massive hand. “I’m a private person.”

  Jake stepped back, wondering what Trane was hiding in his room. Maybe he was just messy. “We can use one of the rooms downstairs if you like. Just a few questions.”

  Trane gave Jake another hard stare. Evaluating. Measuring. Then he slipped through the door and past Jake so smoothly Jake didn’t even have a chance to step back. The man was massive, at least six-four, and thick through the chest and shoulders. Easily capable of delivering the blow that had killed Henry.

  Trane led Jake to a small room set up as a parlor. A pair of wingbacks framed a front window. Trane sat in one and rested his big hands on his knees. “Well?”

  Jake perched on the edge of the matching chair, keeping some weight on his feet in case he needed to move. He took a moment to look Trane over, letting the silence work on the man. In the strong sunlight coming through the west-facing window, Trane’s face looked lined and rough. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing thick forearms, the skin a dark scaly red. The man spent too much time in the sun. His jeans looked new and flared over a pair of well-worn boots with low heels.

  “Why were you watching Henry Fox?”

  “Who says I was?”

  Failing to answer a question was a clear deception marker. But Trane displayed no other markers, physical or verbal.

  “But you know Mr. Fox?”

  “It’s a hot topic downstairs, so I know who he is. The beloved handyman killed in his home. It even made the Chicago news.”

  “A neighbor saw you down by the barn on Mr. Fox’s property a few days before.”

  “I’m looking to buy some real estate here in town, and I like that area.”

  “I didn’t say where he lived.”

  Trane sighed. “Everyone in town knows where the murder happened. I’ve been all through that neighborhood looking at land. There aren’t many underdeveloped properties left down there.”

  If there’s a hoard of thousand-ounce silver bars in Weston, that area is where Trane thinks he’ll find it.

  “You’re not here for real estate,” Jake said. “You’re here for silver.”

  Trane’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. Surprised that Jake knew about the silver, but under control. Jake waited for the big man to speak, but he didn’t. A smart move when you don’t know how much the other guy knows.

  “You’re familiar with silver bars?” Jake asked.

  Trane was quiet and completely still. Waiting. Thinking.

  “Hundred-ounce bars?”

  Nothing.

  “Thousand-ounce bars?”

  Trane flinched, but caught himself and recovered. “I’ve handled silver as bars, rods, ingots, coins, and jewelry. Gold, too. I’m a treasure hunter.”

  “You were a treasure hunter.”

  “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “Your company went under, didn’t it?”

  Trane shrugged. “The company, not me. And that doesn’t change what I am.”

  Rich guys always wanted it to be clear they hadn’t file bankruptcy personally; it had just been their company. “Why were you out at Jim Bowen’s house this morning?”

  Trane shifted in his chair. “Who’s that?” He rubbed his face with a big hand.

  Anchor point movement. Answering with a question. Touching his face. The trio of indicators said Trane was lying. “Bowen owns half the silver Mr. Fox found,” Jake said.

  Trane’s mouth squeezed shut and he shook his head tightly, his eyes boring into Jake’s. “Ownership isn’t always so cut and dried.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You did your homework on me before coming here, right, Houser?” Trane’s voice rose. “So you know my company filed bankruptcy after a dispute over a treasure I found.”

  “Is that what you’re after, Mr. Trane? You’re here chasing a lost treasure?”

  Trane chewed his lip and pushed back into his chair. “I’m trying to educate you that finding and owning are two different things.”

  “An expensive lesson you learned a few years ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not the only Texan in town chasing the silver.”

  Trane’s eyes popped wide, and he leaned forward. He opened his mouth, desperate to ask who, the first syllable forming on his lips before he caught himself. His mouth closed but his eyes had narrowed and they stayed that way.

  So. The Texans weren’t working together.

  “Anything else, Detective?”

  Jake considered. He hadn’t hit Trane with the mint mark, or the forum, or the timing of his arrival in Weston, but he’d hold those back until he knew more. About this man and about the silver. “No, Mr. Trane. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The big Texan sprang from the chair, and the sudden movement made Jake shoot to his feet, his adrenaline flowing. But Trane simply looked him up and down before striding away, the heels of his boots pounding against the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The adrenaline hadn’t yet faded when Jake got to his car, and his handwriting was a little shaky as he took notes about his conversation with Trane. Then he called Erin to see if she had anything more on Cole.

  “About the arrests,” she said. “He worked personal security for some billionaire, and sometimes things got physical and people complained.”

  “Were all the incidents related to his job? No bar fights or domestics?”

  “Still getting through them, but it looks that way.”

  “And no convictions?” Jake asked.

  “None.”

  That didn’t surprise him. The justice system was easy on billionaires and those they protected. But more importantly, if all the charges were from more than eleven years ago and were all work-related, then Cole might not be violent at all.

  “Who was the rich guy?” Jake asked.

  “His name isn’t in any of the reports I’ve seen so far. Like they’re protecting him.”

  “Texans like their rich.”

  “I’m still digging.”

  “Good. We have two guys up here from Texas. Something down there will help unravel this.”

  “And I’ve looked at the coin dealer. He’s the only guy outside of Chicago who buys and sells silver in bulk.”

  “And is he dirty?”

  “We don’t have a problem with him. Always cooperates. He’s bought a few things that turned out to be stolen, but always turns his records over immediately. But he’s been sued over a dozen times. Fraud, breach of contract. Civil stuff. Always settles.”

  “Thanks, Erin.”

  * * *

  Conner googled the price of silver. A single thousand-ounce bar was worth over twenty-two thousand dollars. No wonder his dad had been so pissed off. That number was so big it even got Conner daydreaming. If they had even a few of the bars, maybe ten, April could join him at Northwestern—where she belonged—and he’d never have to talk to his dad again. Twenty bars would be even better.

  He clicked through to Google Maps and zoomed in on the bluff along the river. April was positive her dad had found the silver there. But it was a much bigger area than he had thought: a thick forest as big as two or three city blocks, with the Bristol Yard—a group of metal buildings around a gravel parking area—in the middle of it. It would take a long time to search all that.

  Worse, they wouldn’t be the only ones looking. They’d be competing with the killer, who was also after the silver.

  Conner pulled his feet up onto the chair and hugged his knees, his heart beating hard against his chest. He knew his strengths, and bravery wasn’t one of them.

  A flash of shame heated his face with the sudden hope that his dad had killed Mr. Fox.

  His dad wouldn’t hurt them even if
he caught them searching for the silver.

  He closed his laptop, put on his coat, and left the house. He cut through the neighborhood to the asphalt path running along the river, taking it north until he got to the Burlington railroad bridge. It had been rebuilt sometime in the far distant past, and a heap of giant concrete chunks from the original bridge were still piled up on the other side of the river. He scrambled over the bridge and down to his favorite slab, sat, and lit a joint. Smoking always helped him think.

  He lay back, the rays of the falling sun pinning him in place and warming him. He tilted his face up and closed his eyes. He took a big hit and held it in, the herb pumping smoothly through his body. He didn’t exhale until his pulse pounded in his temples.

  Had his dad killed Mr. Fox?

  He didn’t want to believe it, but… it was possible. People did crazy shit all the time. And his dad had been so mad when Mr. Fox kept the little bars for himself. That email about the bigger bars would surely have set him off again. He had a scary temper, he was way bigger and stronger than Mr. Fox, and he had been home alone that night. And Mr. Fox’s house was less than two miles away—a short walk on the paved riverside trails that were empty and unlit at night.

  Yeah, it was absolutely possible. Conner’s dad was both physically and psychologically capable of doing it.

  He called April.

  “How are you?” he said. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, Mom’s sleeping again. Fast-timing it, she calls it. Sleeping through the pain hoping she’ll wake up and it’ll be gone.”

  “I’ve been thinking and…” Conner stopped, realizing suddenly how cold-hearted his suggestion was in light of Mr. Fox’s murder.

  “You think we should look for the silver,” April said. “For ourselves.”

  It was like they shared one mind. “I know we should be thinking about your dad and praying for him, and I am doing those things. But right now my dad is busy with my mom and with worrying about that cop. And if there’s enough silver, it’s our chance to get out of here. Together. We should try and find it.”

  “We can’t do anything for my dad. We can do something for ourselves.”

  He took another hit and savored the clarity pumping through him.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “Yep.” His voice was high and tight as he tried to hold on to the smoke. He failed, and it came out in a long whoosh. “But only if my dad did do it. If someone else did it, then it’s too dangerous.”

  “I…”

  “What?” he asked her.

  “I think the risk is worth it.”

  He’d hoped she would go for it, but now he wasn’t sure. His body shook with fear.

  “Do you think your dad did it?” she asked him.

  “I…don’t know.”

  “You have to decide,” she said. “He’s your dad.”

  That was fair. He took another hit, and the quaking in his legs subsided. “Can you call that detective? He’s your godfather, right? Maybe he’s already figured it out but can’t prove it yet. Invite him over to talk about god stuff and find a way to bring it up. Or maybe just come out and ask him if he knows who killed your dad. It’s a natural question, right?”

  “I can ask him to come with us to the funeral parlor. It’s kind of a religious thing and he’s one of those guys who likes to help people with hard things.”

  “Perfect. Will that bother your mom?”

  “I won’t tell her.” She paused, then went on with more energy in her voice. “This will work. Mr. Houser has never been able to say no to me.”

  * * *

  Jake pulled to the curb in front of Cole’s apartment building. He spotted Grady down the street and lifted a finger from the steering wheel in a discreet wave. Then his phone buzzed. April.

  “How are you, April? And your mom?”

  “We’re doing okay.”

  She didn’t sound okay. Her voice was hoarse and subdued.

  “What can I do?”

  “I’d like your help with something. As my—you know—my godfather?”

  “Of course.” If she wanted to talk about death and what came next, he’d do the best he could.

  “Will you… I know this is asking a lot, but…”

  “Anything.”

  “Will you come to the funeral home with us? Everson’s? We have an appointment at five o’clock.”

  “Of course.” Jake had to clear a sudden thick wad of emotion from his throat. “I’d be honored to help you through that.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Houser. Bye.”

  After he put his phone away Jake regretted not asking her about the big bars. He would find a way to raise the subject while they were at Everson’s. If he could do it without being an ass.

  He checked his watch. He had plenty of time to talk to Titus Cole before the appointment at Everson’s.

  The fold of carpet runner was back under the door, but now the hallway smelled of curry. Jake stopped in front of Cole’s door and listened. No television. He knocked, and after a few seconds footsteps approached and the door opened.

  “Detective.” Cole’s voice was hard and unwelcoming. He was done cooperating.

  “I have a few more questions.”

  “I don’t think I want—”

  “Two different people described that blot on your face as a strawberry birthmark.” Jake brushed past Cole into the apartment and sat on the couch. “But I think it’s actually called a port-wine stain, right?”

  “I didn’t invite you in.” Cole closed the door, then stood there with his hand on the knob.

  “Let’s say you did.” Jake stretched an arm along the back of the couch. “You lied to me, Mr. Cole. A lie of omission, but still a lie. You collect silver.”

  Cole’s brow creased. Jake gave him a minute to realize Jake knew about the coin shop and the silver bar he’d bought and that he’d gotten a copy of the receipt with Henry’s name on it. If Cole kept talking, he would tell a story to cover all of that.

  “I bought a silver bar from a local coin shop.” His hand dropped from the doorknob and he shrugged. “Turned out Henry Fox had sold the bar to the coin shop. A coincidence.”

  “But you didn’t know Henry then. You said you met him a month later.” Jake waited for a response, but all he got was brooding silence. “Do you have an alibi for the night Henry was killed? Tuesday night.”

  “I was home watching the Northern Illinois football game. It was the MAC game of the week. But I live alone, so no one can vouch for me.”

  “I need to see the bar you bought.”

  “It’s in a safe deposit box at Weston Community Bank.” Cole lifted his hands wide. “This place isn’t exactly secure.”

  “I’ll have a patrol officer come and take you to the bank to retrieve it.” Cole could make Jake get a search warrant, but if the bar wasn’t the murder weapon he wouldn’t bother.

  “That’s fine, Detective.”

  “Is your entire collection at the bank?”

  “I’ll show you the one bar.”

  “Who did you work for in Texas?”

  Instead of answering, Cole opened the door. “Please leave, Detective.”

  “I don’t think you moved up here for the little bars.” Jake stood up, watching Cole carefully. Cole’s face froze, but his eyes drilled into Jake’s. “But I can see you moving up here for the thousand-ounce bars Mr. Fox found.”

  Cole worked his jaw but said nothing. Jake walked slowly, hoping Cole would spill something. Cole’s hand gripped the doorknob, his knuckles splotching red and white.

  Jake stepped out into the hall, then turned and gave Cole a parting shot to try and shake something loose. “You’re not the only Texan up here looking for those big bars.”

  Cole’s eyebrows rose—and he swung the door shut in Jake’s face.


  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jake walked back to his car with one arm holding his blazer shut against the cold wind, the rich aroma of dark chocolate riding it from the cookie factory to the west. Through some trick of baking science it usually smelled scorched, but today it didn’t. Fresh and rich and so thick you could almost take a bite from the air. Then the wind shifted and it was gone. He turned to the west as if he could see it, but caught only the last rays of the setting sun leaking over the horizon.

  He got the heater pumping in the car, called Erin, and explained the situation with Cole’s silver bar. He asked her to have a patrol officer escort Cole to the bank with an evidence bag to retrieve the bar and then run it straight to the lab.

  One way or another, the two Texans were at the heart of this. Even though the men weren’t working together, they were chasing the same thing. How many thousand-ounce silver bars would it take to draw the men to town? A hundred? More?

  Both men were solid suspects. Both had means and opportunity. Both were strong enough to deliver the blow that killed Henry. Neither had an alibi. And both had a motive: the silver.

  Cole had even put out a feeler with Griffin ten years before the little bars turned up—which meant he’d known the silver was here for at least that long. Then when the first little bar finally turned up, he moved to town, found out who had sold the bar to Griffin—Henry—and manufactured a relationship with him. Just waiting for Henry to find the big bars. Cole had planned and acted deliberately. He took the long view and wasn’t in a hurry.

  Trane, on the other hand, was big and physical and quick to anger. He rushed north immediately after Griffin posted the question about the big bars. Trane was impulsive and, as a treasure hunter, used to taking big risks when the potential reward was great. Jake replayed his encounter with Trane and the fast fluidity of the man’s movements. Trane could easily have struck Henry before he could react.

  Grady was watching the wrong man.

  Jake pulled out his phone and dialed, and watched Grady through the windshield as he answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “I want you to drop Cole to follow Trane—he’s that big Texan the neighbor spotted near Henry’s.” Jake told Grady what he knew about Trane and where he was staying.